The assembled company was now filing to the gangway; Collins, in accordance with naval etiquette, would have to go down the side into the barge ahead of Cornwallis.
“I’ll detail Côtard from his ship on special service,” said Collins hastily. “I’ll send him over to you and you can look him over.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Cornwallis was now thanking his host and saying good-bye to the other captains; Collins unobtrusively yet with remarkable rapidity contrived to do the same, and disappeared over the side. Cornwallis followed, with all the time honoured ceremonial of guard of honour and band and sideboys, while his flag was hauled down from the foretopmast head. After his departure barge after barge came alongside, each gaudy with new paint, with every crew tricked out in neat clothing paid for out of their captains’ pockets, and captain after captain went down into them, in order of seniority, and shoved off to their respective ships.
Lastly came Hotspur‘s drab little quarter-boat, its crew dressed in the clothes issued to them in the slop-ship the day they were sent on board.
“Good-bye, sir,” said Hornblower, holding out his hand to Pellew.
Pellew had shaken so many hands, and had said so many good-byes, that Hornblower was anxious to cut this farewell as short as possible.
“Good-bye, Hornblower,” said Pellew, and Hornblower quickly stepped back, touching his hat. The pipes squealed until his head was below the level of the main-deck, and then he dropped perilously into the boat, hat, gloves, sword and all, all of them shabby.
Chapter 10
“I’ll take this opportunity, Mr Bush,” said Hornblower, “of repeating what I said before. I’m sorry you’re not being given your chance.”
“It can’t be helped, sir. It’s the way of the service,” replied the shadowy figure confronting Hornblower on the dark quarter-deck. The words were philosophical, but the tone was bitter. It was all part of the general logical madness of war, that Bush should feel bitter at not being allowed to risk his life, and that Hornblower, about to be doing so, should commiserate with Bush, speaking in flat formal tones as if he were not in the least excited — as if he were feeling no apprehension at all.
Hornblower knew himself well enough to be sure that if some miracle were to happen, if orders were to arrive forbidding him to take personal part in the coming raid, he would feel a wave of relief; delight as well as relief. But it was quite impossible, for the orders had definitely stated that ‘the landing party will be under the command of Captain Horatio Hornblower of the Hotspur.’ That sentence had been explained in advance in the preceding one … ‘because Lieut. Côtard is senior to Lieut. Bush.’ Côtard could not possibly have been transferred from one ship and given command of a landing party largely provided by another; nor could he be expected to serve under an officer junior to him, and the only way round the difficulty had been that Hornblower should command. Pellew, writing out those orders in the quiet of his magnificent cabin, had been like a Valkyrie in the Norse legends now attaining a strange popularity in England — he had been a Chooser of the Slain. Those scratches of his pen could well mean that Bush would live and Hornblower would die.
But there was another side to the picture. Hornblower had grudgingly to admit to himself that he would have been no more happy if Bush had been in command. The operation planned could only be successful if carried through with a certain verve and with an exactness of timing that Bush possibly could not provide. Absurdly, Hornblower was glad he was to command, and that was one demonstration in his mind of the defects of his temperament.
“You are sure about your orders until I return, Mr Bush?” he said. “And in case I don’t return?”
“Yes, sir.”
Hornblower had felt a cold wave up his spine while he spoke so casually about the possibility of his death. An hour from now he might be a disfigured stiffening corpse.
“Then I’ll get myself ready,” he said, turning away with every appearance of nonchalance.
He had hardly reached his cabin when Grimes entered.
“Sir!” said Grimes, and Hornblower swung round and looked at him. Grimes was in his early twenties, skinny, highly strung, and excitable. Now his face was white — his duties as steward meant that he spent little time on deck in the sun — and his lips were working horribly.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Hornblower curtly.
“Don’t make me come with you, sir!” spluttered Grimes. “You don’t want me with you, sir, do you, sir?”
It was an astonishing moment. In all his years of service Hornblower had never met with any experience in the least similar, and he was taken aback. This was cowardice; it might even be construed as mutiny. Grimes had in the last five seconds made himself liable not merely to the cat but to the noose. Hornblower could only stand and stare, wordless.
“I’ll be no use, sir,” said Grimes. “I — I might scream!”
Now that was a very definite point. Hornblower, giving his orders for the raid, had nominated Grimes as his messenger and aide-de-camp. He had given no thought to the selection; he had been a very casual Chooser of the Slain. Now he was learning a lesson. A frightened man at his elbow, a man made clumsy by fear, could imperil the whole expedition. Yet the first words he could say echoed his earlier thoughts.
“I could hang you, by God!” he exclaimed.
“No, sir! No, sir! Please, sir —” Grimes was on the point of collapse; in another moment he would be down on his knees.
“Oh, for God’s sake —” said Hornblower. He was conscious of contempt, not for the coward, but for the man who allowed his cowardice to show. And then he asked himself by what right he felt this contempt. And then he thought about the good of the Service, and then —. He had no time to waste in these trivial analyses.
“Very well,” he snapped. “You can stay on board. Shut your mouth, you fool!”
Grimes was about to show gratitude, but Hornblower’s words cut it off short.
“I’ll take Hewitt out of the second boat. He can come with me. Pass the word for him.”
The minutes were fleeting by, as they always did with the final touches to put on to a planned scheme. Hornblower passed his belt through the loop on a cutlass sheath, and buckled it round him. A sword hanging on slings could be a hindrance, would strike against obstructions, and the cutlass was a handier weapon for what he contemplated. He gave a final thought to taking a pistol, and again rejected the idea. A pistol might be useful in certain circumstances, but it was a bulky encumbrance. Here was something more silent — a long sausage of stout canvas filled with sand, with a loop for the wrist. Hornblower settled it conveniently in his right hand pocket.
Hewitt reported, and had to be briefly told what was expected of him. The sidelong glance he gave to Grimes revealed much of what Hewitt thought, but there was no time for discussion; that matter would have to be sorted out later. Hewitt was shown the contents of the bundle originally allotted to Grimes — the flint and steel for use if the dark lantern were extinguished, the oily rags, the slow match, the quick match, the blue lights for instant intense combustion. Hewitt took solemn note of each item and weighed his sandbag in his hand.
“Very well. Come along,” said Hornblower.
“Sir!” said Grimes at that moment in a pleading tone, but Hornblower would not — indeed could not — spare time to hear any more.
On deck it was pitch dark, and Hornblower’s eyes took long to adjust themselves.
Officer after officer reported all ready.
“You’re sure of what you have to say, Mr Côtard?”
“Yes, sir.”
There was no hint of the excitable Frenchman about Côtard. He was as phlegmatic as any commanding officer could desire.
“Fifty-one rank and file present, sir,” reported the captain of marines.